Chapter 8
EIGHT
Caleb
My body goes through the motions—sweep the room, check the corners—the words I have to say already burning in my throat as I step inside.
I avoid Brooke's penetrating stare, delaying as long as I can, and dip my head at Mateo. "Good work," I say quietly, clapping him once on the shoulder. "You held it down."
He nods, shoulders rigid as he shoots a look toward Brooke. "She's got grit. Most people would be falling apart by now."
His respect for her makes what I'm about to do feel like an ambush.
"Check in with Hightower HQ," I tell him. "And go get a room. I'll need you again in the morning."
Another nod. Then he's gone, and suddenly there's nowhere left to hide from what I have to tell her.
“What did the cops say?”
I rub my hand over my jaw. "You can give your statement in the morning."
She tilts her head, studying my face. "But?"
Yeah. She knows something's up. She might have grit, but this is going to hurt.
"I just spoke to Zack," I begin, then stop. The words stick in my throat.
Her brow furrows, confusion replacing suspicion. "Zack?"
I force the explanation out. "He's our police liaison. When we need intel from law enforcement, he gets it."
Confusion still lingers on her face. I steel myself for what comes next. "Eliza was found dead in her apartment two hours ago. It looks like she took her own life."
The silence that follows is suffocating. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on me like the words didn't land right. Like they're still looking for a place to hit.
For a long moment, she just stares. Processing. The color slowly drains from her face.
She rocks slightly, as if the news is a physical blow she's absorbing.
Then her knees buckle .
I cross the distance fast, grabbing her before she hits the carpet. Brooke goes limp in my arms. All the independence she clings to burns out in an instant, leaving nothing but raw pain stretched across her face.
She's breathing too fast, panicked, eyes wide and unseeing as I guide her to the sofa. I keep my voice steady. "Sit down. You're okay. Just breathe."
She doesn't answer, just collapses onto the cushions like a marionette with cut strings.
Without thinking, I draw her to me, arms sliding around her waist, pulling her close like maybe I can shield her from everything she's feeling.
The movement is instinctive, protective.
But the moment my hands settle against the small of her back, something tightens in my throat, cutting off my next breath entirely.
The rational part of my mind screams warnings. She's vulnerable. Grieving. Dependent on me for safety.
But then she whispers my name against my shirt, so quietly I almost miss it, and every rational thought dissolves.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," I murmur.
A sob slips past her lips, and she folds into herself, body convulsing as the weight of it all hits.
I should stay neutral. Keep my distance. But I don't move.
Her fingers curl into the fabric at my back, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's suddenly shifted off its axis. And maybe I am.
Maybe, for tonight, that's exactly what she needs me to be.
Brooke
Sunlight sweeps across the ceiling, warm and golden, but it doesn't reach the heaviness inside me.
Caleb is asleep on the bed. When he moved from the couch, I don’t know.
My whole body feels dragged through a storm. Like the grief I wrestled with all night has left bruises beneath the surface. But it's more than grief now. It's guilt, sharp and relentless, cutting through every rational thought I try to form.
I leave Caleb sleeping and tiptoe across the room. In the bathroom, the mirror confirms what I already feel. My face is pale, drawn. My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen—evidence of the night I couldn’t hold myself together.
I grip the vanity, the floor tilting out from under me. She’s dead. Gone.
The guilt crashes over me again. Eliza trusted me. She came to me scared and desperate, and I let my own ambition cloud my judgment. I pushed when I should have listened. I wanted the story more than I wanted to protect her .
I promised her. Promised her she’d be okay.
I whisper a prayer, desperate, frantic, my voice small as all confidence drains from me. “Lord, she’s gone. I can’t do anything about that, but please, help me to bring comfort to her family. They need to know she was…”
I pause, fresh tears welling in my eyes. I don’t know what her family needs. I don’t even know if they live here. The weight of my ignorance presses down like a stone in my chest.
If I’d had time, I would’ve been up half the night looking into her background, finding out as much as I could about her. Instead, I let myself fall apart in Caleb’s arms. Part of me feels guilty about that too—choosing comfort over action, choosing my own needs over justice for Eliza.
It’s my fault. I pushed too hard. I was so fixated on my big break that I forgot Eliza was young, scared, and vulnerable.
The shame burns in my chest, mixing with grief until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I’ve always believed that God uses everything for good, but how can any good come from this? How can Eliza’s death serve any purpose other than to highlight my failures?
As I wash my face and brush my teeth, questions pound through my brain. She was scared. A little paranoid. But suicidal?
My journalistic instincts war with my emotional turmoil. There’s a story here. A truth that needs uncovering. But every time I try to focus on the facts, I see Eliza’s face, hear the tremor in her voice when she begged me to guarantee her safety.
Wracked with uncertainty, I return to my prayer, pleading with God to shine a light on this. Not just for me, but so the darkness will be made visible.
“Please, don’t let her death be just another statistic… another number. She was someone’s little girl… a daughter, maybe a sister…”
The words catch in my throat. There must be people who love her, who are waking up this morning to a world without her in it.
My prayer is cut off by the sound of Caleb on the other side of the door. Even through the wood, his voice sends a shiver of awareness through me. Professional, controlled, but I can hear the exhaustion underneath. He’s been making calls, taking care of things while I fell apart.
Taking a breath and asking for guidance one last time, I return and find Caleb at the small table. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, speaking in low, measured tones to someone at Hightower.
The sight of him stops me in my tracks. He’s rumpled from sleep—or lack of it—but there’s something magnetic about the way he commands the space. Even tired, even dealing with crisis, he radiates a quiet authority that makes me feel safer just being in the same room .
His voice is calm, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the fatigue in the way he pinches the bridge of his nose. The call ends and he looks over, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth. “Want some bad coffee?”
Even now, even in the middle of everything falling apart, he’s trying to shield me.
“I want to know what that phone call was about.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, that small smile grows a little. “Figured.”
Of course he did. He’s starting to know me, starting to understand how my mind works.
He sets the mug down and meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “It was Zack again. Looks like there may be some inconsistencies we need to check on.”
Hope flickers to life in my chest. “Like what?”
He nods, a slight grin on his weary face. “My primary focus is keeping you safe, but as long as we’re careful, Silas is okay if we want to conduct our own investigation.”
I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck and across my cheeks. He’s doing this for me. He doesn’t owe me anything—we barely know each other—but he’s willing to put himself on the line because he wants to help me find the truth.
I’m so overwhelmed, my feet feel rooted to the floor.
My mouth is dry, my thoughts scrambled, and I can’t seem to form the words that should be easy to say.
How do you thank someone for seeing you, for believing in you, for standing with you when your world falls apart?
How do you express gratitude that runs deeper than words?
“She didn’t commit suicide,” I blurt. “It doesn’t make sense.”
The words aren’t what I meant to say, but they’re true. And maybe focusing on the case is safer than examining the feelings churning in my chest.
Caleb’s gaze doesn’t shift. He just watches me, steady and calm, his head tilting the slightest fraction.
“Maybe not,” he says softly. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“We’ll?” The word sends a thrill through me. Partnership. Not just protection, but true collaboration. He’s not just keeping me safe, he’s including me, respecting my need to be part of finding the truth.
One eyebrow lifts, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. We.”
“You’re including me?”
I can’t hide the wonder in my voice. After years of being dismissed by editors, of being told to leave the real investigative reporting to veterans, of being treated like I need protecting rather than partnering, Caleb is offering me exactly what I need.
“Too hard to keep you out,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on mine. “Especially when I’m stuck to you like Velcro.”
He’s trying to keep it light, but I hear what’s beneath it. To confirm it, he huffs a quiet breath. “Just try not to make it harder than it needs to be.”
I want to tell him I won’t.
That I won’t take unnecessary risks.
But I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.
Caleb